Stop gawking and say something, you idiot.
“The balcony is large enough to accommodate the both of us,” he managed.
She rewarded him with another smile before coming to lean her gloved arms on the balustrade next to him. Her pose was relaxed and companionable, as casual as if they were two soldiers sharing a break on the battlements. Peering into the darkness, she did the most remarkable thing: closing her eyes, she leaned into the night and inhaled deeply. His blood pumped thickly at the unaffected sensuality of her actions. Moonlight shimmered over her flawless skin and the luscious bounty of her décolletage. It glinted off the sparkling threads shot through the fabric of her gown, the elegant white column an ode to her nubile form.
“Honeysuckle.”
At the throaty word, he hastily yanked his gaze up from her voluptuous bottom. “Er, pardon?”
Her long, sooty lashes swept against dark, curving brows. Though the darkness obscured the precise color of her eyes, he guessed they were some rich shade—blue, maybe. There was no hiding the glimmer of amusement in them.
“Honeysuckle,” she repeated. “Do you smell it?”
He blinked. He hadn’t been paying attention before, but now he sniffed the air, and there it was: a sweet and subtle scent. “Yes,” he said with surprise. “I do.”
“There’s musk rose too. And…” Her bosom rose delightfully as she inhaled again.
“Eglantine,” he finished for her.
“Yes, that’s it.” Her smile made heat bloom in his gut. “A uniquely English combination. I’ve just returned from living abroad, you see, so I notice these things.”
She was newly arrived in London then, which explained why he’d never met her before. It was inconceivable that he could have laid eyes on this woman and not noticed her. Questions burst into his head like a flock of birds at the crack of a gun—and belatedly, he realized he didn’t even know her name. His sense of propriety had abandoned him, along with his capacity for rational thought.
“My apologies,” he said, bowing. “Marcus Harrington, Marquess of Blackwood, at your service.”
At her curtsy, executed with sensual grace, his temperature soared several degrees higher. What was the matter with him? He’d known his fair share of women, yet he couldn’t recall reacting this way to any member of the fair sex before. His was not an inconstant or flighty character; nonetheless, the regard he had for Miss Pilkington, whom just moments ago he’d been considering proposing to, now felt tepid at best. Like tea left overlong in the pot.
In contrast, this stranger’s pull on him was as potent and visceral as a shot of whiskey. Make that a dozen shots. She was that tantalizing dream that he could never fully remember but which left him hard, hot, and sweat-glazed in the sheets.
“I know who you are, Lord Blackwood.” Her lips curved. “I’m Pandora Hudson.”
Her given name suited her. Different, exotic, the promise of the sweetest trouble. Her surname rang a bell too, although he couldn’t quite place it.
“A pleasure, Miss Hudson.” He bent over her hand. The contact with her slim gloved fingers sent a jolt of desire through him.Devil and damn, get a control of yourself, man.“Er, shall I return you to your chaperone for a proper introduction?”
“A few minutes won’t matter. Seeing as I just went through the trouble of evading her,” Miss Hudson said, “I think I deserve some well-earned peace, don’t you?”
He couldn’t argue with that. Nor with the prospect of extending what felt like a stolen, magical moment. When she returned to her earlier pose, leaning her elbows on the balustrade and looking out into the dark gardens, he did the same.
“You are not enjoying the ball?” he said.
“It’s no different from any other. A crush is a crush.” Her creamy shoulders moved in a careless shrug. “The truth is they always make me feel rather lonely.”
He couldn’t fathom Miss Pandora Hudson being left alone at any ball. Or anywhere, for that matter. Unless all the gentlemen in the world had suddenly gone deaf and blind and stupid besides.
“I can’t imagine there’s a single empty line on your dance card,” he said sincerely.
“That’s true.” She slid him a look. Not coy, but assessing. “I didn’t say I was alone—just lonely. One has little to do with the other, wouldn’t you agree?”
Her astute words triggered a strange recognition in him. A sense of familiarity… which of course made no sense. With each passing moment, he knew he would never forget a female such as this.
“Where did you say you lived abroad?” he said on impulse.
“I didn’t.” Her eyes held a hint of laughter. “But the answer is this: nowhere and everywhere. My parents spent their time travelling the Continent, and I was raised in different finishing schools along the way. France, Switzerland, Italy—toss a coin on a map, and chances are I’ve lived where it lands.”
Her description triggered Marcus’ recollection of her parents. Although he’d never met the Hudsons personally, he knew them by name. They’d been goodton, a society couple who’d lived abroad as the husband had a fancy for digging up relics and old bones.
“An unusual upbringing,” he commented. “What brings you back?”
